


adventures in caffeination

by orphan_account



Category: The Avengers (2012)
Genre: F/M, M/M, Superhusbands, this isn't really shippy but i put it anyway?, you will take your superhusbands and you will love them
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-10-09
Updated: 2012-10-09
Packaged: 2017-11-16 00:30:08
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,030
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/533484
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Some people prefer to take their coffee from eleven-thousand-dollar custom-engineered coffee machines imported from Europe; Clint Barton gets his in a more pedestrian fashion. Sometimes Natasha comes, too.</p><p>Off a prompt from Tumblr.</p>
            </blockquote>





	adventures in caffeination

**Author's Note:**

> Giant thanks to Emily for beta-ing and Paige for prompting! You guys are fabulous.

The lives of the Avengers are nowhere near as glamorous as the media makes them out to be. Except, of course, when they are.

But after they’ve finished dealing with the latest giant squirrel attack (don’t ask), there’s usually a bit of downtime after their press coverage is done and before Fury wants them back at SHIELD for post-battle reports. And the Avengers, being human (mostly), need a way to unwind.

Tony likes to disappear deep into the bowels of his workshop, hiding amongst bits of metal and wire. Bruce does yoga (which Clint would totally make fun of him for, except no one really wants Bruce to ever stop with the yoga, for the sake of Tony’s marble floors and sixth flatscreen mega-television). Steve either hits the gym or tries to catch up on pop culture, usually by watching reruns of _The Brady Bunch_ and _That Seventies Show_. Thor does – actually, Clint isn’t really sure what Thor does, outside of hitting things with Mjolnir and speaking excitedly in a REALLY LOUD VOICE about chocolate-covered pretzels (which he insists are AMONG THE MOST DIVINE CREATIONS OF MIDGARD; TRULY, SON OF BARTON, DOES THY SMALL MIDGARDIAN TONGUE NOT APPRECIATE THIS FINE CUISINE AS MINE DOES).

Clint, on the other hand, prefers to contribute to the statistics of “people who will probably die of a caffeine overdose before they’re forty.” He’s only human, after all, not amped up on super serum or actual godliness or anything. He brings Natasha along, too, because after that one morning without coffee resulted in one man minus two fingers, Clint figured it was probably wisest to keep her well-caffeinated on a regular basis.

So one pleasant September afternoon, once the last of the weird greenish monsters with purple antlers has melted into a Barney-the-Dinosaur-colored puddle, he turns to Natasha and says, “Starbucks on Fifth?”

“The Wednesday barista hates you,” she reminds him. He can’t hold back the cackle that escapes him at the memory: exploding espresso machines, coffee dripping from the ceiling, and a balding, shrieking, very obese man.

“Fair enough. That weird place two blocks from here?”

“Face it, Barton, you are _way_ too mainstream to even dream of setting foot in that place.”

He grins. “Right again. The usual, then?”

“Why do you even ask?”

\--

They don’t bother to change out of their suits. Unlike some of the others, they can’t just fly themselves up to Stark Tower for street clothes on a whim, and right now neither of them really wants to deal with the throngs of gaping passersby clogging up the streets of Manhattan. Thankfully, the baristas at this particular coffee shop have seen them often enough that the reflex of _oh my god superheroes can I have a picture_ has faded, and most of the regulars recognize them, too. Clint can usually maintain some semblance of anonymity, though it’s more difficult if he’s suited up or with Natasha ( _oh my god, two superheroes at once_ ).

The little string of bells on the door jingles cheerfully as they go in. Bob, one of the guys who works the morning shift, pauses in wiping down the counter to wave.

“Whatever you two want, on the house,” he calls in his heavy accent. “You earned ‘em. Been watching you guys – or, uh, guy and gal – on the news.” He nods respectfully at Natasha, who only raises an eyebrow. “Nasty things, these ones were.”

“Thanks, Bob.” Bob waves a rag in response.

A harried-looking student is gaping at them from his pile of textbooks in the corner. Clint ignores both his stare and the way Natasha is doing a mental sweep of the entire place, like she has been since the second they stepped within fifty feet of the door. She’s not so obvious as to actually turn her head, of course. It’s the way her eyes flick around every few seconds, how her gaze tracks Bob as he disappears through the door into the kitchen, the glance she gives the hungover guy slumped in the corner that’s a touch too casual to be casual.

Their eyes meet for only a second, but it’s enough time for him to say _relax, this place is secure_ , and for her to say, _don’t ever let your guard down, moron_.

Clint shrugs, only half a movement, and steps up to the counter and hopes that this time they’ll let him have six shots of espresso.

“Hi, Clint,” says the barista. She’s only worked there for a few weeks, but he remembers her name well enough (although the name tag doesn’t hurt, either).

“Lisa,” he says, and grins, just charming enough to make her giggle. Behind him, he can actually _feel_ Natasha mentally rolling her eyes at him. “Could I get a double shot--or actually, could you triple the—”

Lisa doesn’t get to find out what gets tripled, though, because just then the door opens with a cheery jingle and goddamn Iron Man clanks in, followed closely by a hesitant-looking Captain America. The spangly white star on his chest contrasts weirdly with the way his hands are fidgeting, a stray steel-alloy thread on his left glove coming loose.

“Tony,” Steve hisses. “I _told_ you that you should have changed out of the suit before—" 

“What, why? I don’t see a problem with the suit. Does anyone have a problem with the suit?” He turns to face the modestly filled coffee shop. The patrons gape back, speechless.

“I don’t hear anything,” says Tony, relentlessly cheerful. “Usually, if you don’t hear any death threats or screams of terror by now, it’s probably a good sign. _Well_ , that or the entire place is about to blow.”

“That isn’t what I meant,” Steve starts to say, but then Tony seems to finally register the presence of two other Avengers.

“ _You_?” Tony says, staring at Clint. His voice seems to have gone up about half an octave. “Here?”

“I could say the same,” Clint manages.

“With Natasha?”

“With _Steve_?”

In the background, Steve cringes. He’s beginning to turn a rather amusing shade of pink.

“ _We_ ,” says Tony pointedly, “just wanted caffeine. _You_ look rather cozy for two people who are wanted in seventeen countries for reasons that Fury refuses to tell me, on the premise that some things are for him to know and for me to never find out--which is total bullshit, by the way, there is nothing that I don’t want to find out and then blow up in everyone’s faces--”

“ _We_ wanted coffee,” says Clint, cutting him off, “and _you_ are freakishly possessive of your espresso machine.”

“It’s new!”

“It’s _far away_ ,” Clint corrects him, “deep in the bowels of the Tower of You, and anyway, why aren’t you using it right now? Cost you enough to get it in the first place.”

“It was eleven grand,” Tony says, miffed, “and it doesn’t just make espresso, it will make you literally any coffee you want at the press of a very shiny button. Also, if you never say the word ‘bowels’ ever again in your life I will be very, very--hey, no, wait, this isn’t fair at all, Coulson said it was your turn to do press, why do you two get to have a super secret coffee rendezvous?” He squints suspiciously between Clint and Natasha. Obviously he hadn’t had a chance to have coffee that morning before the weird Barney monsters attacked; he’s going on even worse tangents than usual.

“Two things,” Clint says after a couple of slow blinks. “One, we always get coffee after a fight--”

“Lies. Cold-blooded and dirty.”

“They actually do,” Steve puts in. “You usually don’t notice because Coulson has us doing most of the press.”

“You are on my side,” Tony says, fixing him with a baleful stare. “You are _on my side_ , Steve, you are not supposed to agree with the opposition.”

“ _Two_ ,” Clint continues, “I lack Nat’s--uh, Widow’s--creepy powers of deduction, but this is even weirder than your usual...weirdness. You wouldn’t be this weird if you just wanted coffee--”

“I am not _weird_ , I have a razor-sharp wit that you may only envy and aspire to--”

“--so Fury doesn’t know you’re here...wait, stop.” An absolute shit-eating grin pulls at the corners of his mouth. “Are you two on a _da_ \--”

“Do not say the word I think you are about to say,” Tony interrupts, “or I will take these repulsors and repulse them at your _face_.”

“That doesn’t even make sense.”

“Yes it does, and besides, that is so verifiably _not_ true that it makes my skin crawl a little, ugh.” Tony pulls a face. “Because you know what, Mighty Eye of Hawk, a man needs his caffeine every once in a while--well, not just every once in a while, if you’ve grabbed coffee after every single one of our fights you might have reached the point where your blood actually consists of a fair percentage of caffeine--that can’t be good for you, and that is a lot coming from me and my palladium--”

“Iron Man,” Clint says, for the benefit of the patrons frozen at their tables around them. “Shut _up_.”

“There’s no need, we were just leaving,” Steve says quickly, backing out the door. His escape route is unfortunately blocked by a gangly college student with a mop of curly blond hair. 

“You’re – you’re Captain America,” he sputters out.

Clint does a sympathy cringe for Steve in his head. But Steve, ever prepared to deal with the General American Public, just plasters on a smile.

“Sure am, son,” he says in his television-ad voice. “Anything I can help you with?”

“Can you – could I just – could – can you sign my laptop case?” he says in a rush, thrusting a plastic case toward Steve. “A-and, uh, you too – sir?” The kid clearly doesn’t know how to address Tony in full gear – or any of them, for that matter. He looks like he’s about five seconds away from passing out cold. Clint might feel bad for him if the identical fuck-my-life smiles on Steve and Tony’s faces weren’t so hilarious.

“Sure, why not,” Tony says, and Clint knows that Tony’s probably already thought of fourteen different reasons why not, eleven of them including some form of _if we stay here for more than twelve minutes Fury will find out, and then_ I _will find out what happened that time in Budapest because it will be all over my ass_.

The next ten minutes are a flurry of Sharpies and smartphone cameras, as half the coffee shop seems to have taken the nerdy blond kid as an example and jumped up with their own things to be scrawled across. After everyone has scuttled away, clutching coffee cups and newly-signed posessions, Natasha appears at his elbow holding two faintly steaming cups with little to-go stirrers stuck through the lids. Clint isn’t sure how or when she ordered both their drinks – he never actually finished saying his order out loud, but he has no doubt that it’s exactly the way he wanted it.

“Well, this has been sufficiently awkward,” says Natasha with a perfectly straight face. “I would say it was for everyone involved, but it really wasn’t. This is yours—” she hands one cup to Clint— “and we will see you two later, if you’re not too busy gazing deep into each others’ eyes across the stained linoleum table, or whatever it is you’re planning on doing. We don’t need the details,” she adds as an afterthought. There’s not really a need, as Tony and Steve are gaping at her in thinly veiled horror.

Clint makes it all the way out the door and fifteen feet down the sidewalk before bursting into laughter, nearly dumping his coffee all over the Hawkeye suit. A couple of random passersby turn to stare as a pair of world-famous assassins-turned-superheroes stroll past.

“I don’t see what the problem is, Barton,” Natasha says, and Clint can only envy her ability to keep a perfectly straight face in even the most hilarious of situations.

“Fury’s going to _explode_ ,” he cackles, and Natasha takes a delicate sip of her cappuccino and smiles.


End file.
